


Given Time

by namedanonymous



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-16
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 16:22:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4356038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namedanonymous/pseuds/namedanonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From strangers to friends to something else and back to strangers once more. A study of Jason Grace and Reyna Avila Ramirez-Arellano's relationship through snapshots from the first time they set eyes on each other to when forever came to an end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Greetings

_**Your fingertips across my skin**_  

Reyna is twelve when she stumbles into Camp Jupiter, some sort of monster or another hot on her tail –minotaur, daemon, harpies. She doesn’t know which one and it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the burning in her legs and the fire in her lungs as she pushes herself towards the Lincoln Tunnel, a river of cars beeping and swerving around her as she makes a beeline for the river that counts –the Little Tiber and the land beyond where she will finally be safe. The Wolf Lupa’s words still ring in her head as sneakers slap against pavement, the syllables battling the harsh sound of her breath for dominance. _You’ll find a home there, fierce one._

Her limbs slow with exhaustion, feel heavy with the chains of fatigue, as her travel-weary feet break the surface of the cold rushing river water. Halfway across they fail her, the poor traction on her sneakers unable to find purchase on slime covered rocks. And she goes down in a tumble of limbs and imperial gold, cold water rushing up around her ears and pummeling her battered body –forcing her to stay down. All the toils she has been through, the horrors she has experienced upon the Black Pearl and Lupa’s brutal training sessions, and all it takes it a river to undo her –not even the monster at her heels that would have been more honorable.

But maybe this is kinder, with the cool waters rushing over hot fevered skin, hand loosening in its death grip on her dagger even as death reaches out to grip her. Her limbs feel numb and pleasantly paralyzed –much better than rubbing blisters and cuts that threaten to fester—so yes, maybe drowning wasn’t such a terrible fate after all.

Moments later strong fingers wrap around her wrist and there’s a firm hand at the small of her back sending what felt like sparks down her spine –what she would learn later were sparks of nervous energy. The sudden connection consumes her mind, neurons racing to focus on the odd phenomenon. The hand around her hers is strong and hauls her up above the water, her mind jolting from its stupor as her head breaks the surface of the water once more.

No. She is a daughter of Bellona, of war and its horrors, survived pirates and months trekking across the country alone, and held for one of the shortest periods at the Wolf House. War does not relent and she has come too far to give up on the doorstep of her goal, and she is not going to be undone by a puny river so much smaller than the sea. Feet kick out for purchase on slippery rock, and she’s half lead, half forcefully dragged towards the other shore –the safe shore.

Blue lips cough up water onto the green grass beneath trembling fingers, those foreign strong hands still at her arm and back as if she’s going to collapse at any moment —and truth be told that’s exactly what she feels like, though the other doesn’t need to know that. But when she looks up her savior’s eyes are blue too, but brilliantly so like the summer sky, not the death that tinges her own lips. His name is Jason Grace, son of Jupiter, and _welcome to Camp Jupiter._

She owes him her life, but pride keeps her eyes cold, because that’s all she has left now as her own shaking hands push off his with all the dignity she can muster. Her chin lifts up, body making its shaky way to stand, “Reyna. Thanks, but I don’t need your help.”

* * *

By the time her thirteenth birthday runs by, Reyna has long outgrown the skinny, malnourished twelve-year old that fell into the Little Tiber and needed saving —though she’ll deny that she ever needed saving. Muscles move under olive-tanned skin protected by armor, onyx eyes brighter and keener from their new vantage point a few inches higher, and strong fingers akin to the strength in those that hauled her from river water clasp the leather hilt of her _gladius_ as she waits with the Fourth Cohort for the War Games to begin.

“Your strap is loose.” Her head turns to see the familiar mop of gold hair and bright summer eyes with teeth flashing like Circe’s pearls in the sunlight. And then hands are at her shoulder blade, brushing across her purple t-shirt and pulling that leather strap a little tighter until it rests in a comfortable weight against her skin. He’s been appearing at her side at seemingly random times now, this Jason Grace –sometimes at dinner, sometimes on her way to practice, sometimes during practice where they spar with a fervor that would make Lupa proud—and Reyna’s grown accustomed to it and that static that flows from his fingers.

Sometimes, he’s a welcomed sight in a camp that both seems to respect and fear her —–a _Probatio_ who flattened their arguably best swordsman and earned her Legionnaire status in three days by diplomatically with her tongue and _gladius_ working out an escalating argument that had gotten to the stage of drawn weapons. She still pretends he’s annoying, though —a childish move perhaps, but she’s only thirteen going on twenty. Reyna’s never had a childhood so give her this.

A metal braced arms bumps his poking hands away, dark eyes piercing his —her new height not having to look up nearly as much as she did a year ago. “I don’t need your help, Grace.” He blinks once and she mirrors it. There’s a flash of something in Jason’s blue eyes, Reyna notices but takes no meaning from an oddity in blue eyes as she turns away.

She pays no attention to somewhere deep inside where guilt pricks her gut, either.

* * *

The sun sinks, days slip into weeks, and weeks morph into months with dense fog that collects in the hollows of the earth every chilly morning. The morning Reyna wakes and is voted _Centurion_ by her cohort mates is no different, fallen clouds pooling at her feet as she fixes her new metal to her shirt and rungs her fingers over the two lines burned into her forearm. How has she come so far from a maid who wielded eyeliner instead of a _gladius_ and drew perfect cat eyes instead of complex patterns of imperial gold?

_You’re a natural leader_ —-that’s what they tell her as they congratulate her with shining eyes and pleased smiles. _You’ll do well, maybe even praetor one day._

But three days later and she doesn’t think she’s going anywhere as sandals plod down the dusty road to the Senate House. It’s her first time at the court —well at the court with real influence and power beyond that of parroting the details of a quest— and the nervous butterflies in her stomach steal the bulk of her attention. And it shows as fingers usually deft and nimble shake and struggle to tie her white toga at her shoulder, toes tripping over the edge in an ungraceful manner. This is what she wanted, it is not? Leadership, power, a place to belong. And yet, she can’t help but think that she rather be trekking across the whole of North America right now.

“Do you need help with that?” Trust that familiar voice to be at her shoulder, right now —as it always seems to be.

****_I don’t need your help._ The words are there at the top of her tongue –poised to jump out and tumble down as they have every time before– but the moment passes, the syllables stuck behind her lips to let silence speak instead. So she clamps her mouth closed and jerks her head in a tiny nod, hands going to sweep her braid over her other shoulder.

Then his hands are there, a tiny electric shock causing her to flinch slightly though in all honesty she should have expected it as well —should have expected his voice to followed by static electricity as it always is. And like clockwork, the shock is followed by a mumbled sorry that has her lips tugging upwards in a small smile hidden from a blond. Fingers seem to move more quickly after that, retying the knot with ease, though digits collide with her sun warmed skin every so often. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, the feather-light accidental touches on her shoulder better than the nervousness that coils in her stomach like a snake.

“Are you nervous?” He asks, as if she had spoken her emotions aloud. She can feel the intensity of blue eyes on her neck even as she focuses on her sandals and dusty toes instead. “Don’t be. Just be yourself.” His hand is resting on her shoulder now –whether as a gesture of comfort or because he’s merely forgotten it was there…

She takes a step forward and turns, breaking the touch of his hand to let their gazes meet instead —there’s a lingering look of disgust nestled in her own onyx orbs though she can’t help threads of grudging amusement from making their way into her voice. “That sounds like a greeting card.”

He doesn’t seem to miss a beat, hands settling behind his back as shoulders rise in a shrug. “Well, still. You’re a very likable person.” Cue the tug at the corner of his lip causing that thin white scar to shift upwards a bit, before he’s gone. Leaving her in the dusty street with dark eyes left staring after him, unsure if that last comment was sarcasm or not.

* * *

 But some part of her must take Jason Grace’s advice with a grain of salt. It still sounds like part of one of those lame motivational speeches or a t-shirt slogan that Circe would sell –be yourself, unless you’re a dick—but nonetheless, sometime later, as she’s being raised to Praetor and surrounded with the faces of the Legion, her Legion, she stops to think of how Jason saw that hope in the girl he dragged from the Little Tiber —a girl who believed in herself, but thought no one else did and so supported her weight with the power of her own bones.

There’s a party to celebrate her promotion, just as there’s always a party when there’s something to celebrate. And he’s there as usual, a voice at her ear with a smile almost as brilliant as the sun as he hugs her, hands firm across her back, lips whispering _‘congrats’_ into her ear before he’s whirled away by a sea of hands that she shakes with a mantra of _thank you, thank you, thank you_. The rest of the night she feels heady —filled with buzzing electricity that isn’t brought on by some figment of wine— effortlessly weaving, floating between people, purple cloak flowing out behind her in a statement of her new position.

But she finds him later, sitting on a stone bench at the edge of the party sipping some fizzy drink with gentle blue eyes surveying the euphoric mass below. Before she may have had reserves, but now roman sandals take her up the stone path to sit next to the boy with golden hair and watch the party lights go on as they sit in companionable silence.

“Praetor Reyna.” He breaks the stillness first, words holding curls of clear amusement as blue eyes slide from fairy lights to the slender girl. “Didn’t I say all you had to do what be yourself?”

“It still sounds like a greeting card.” Comes to the protest, but the smile that adorns her face as she continues to observe the events below them betrays her —the girl still acutely aware of his gaze on her. “But I suppose I owe you a thank you.” _A thank you I should have said instead of ‘I don’t need your help.’_ But there’s no response save for a chuckle that tugs her eyes to meet his, confusion reflected in the stars in her irises. “What?”

“You don’t owe me anything, least of all a thank you.” Reyna doesn’t think that true, because the sad, sad truth remains that she could have very well drowning on the doorstep of Camp Jupiter if not for a certain blonde, but her retort doesn’t come as she senses an explanation to follow. “You don’t owe me anything, Reyna. You never have.”

So she was wrong and never gets her explanation, though surprise soon consumes her annoyance. Because she doesn’t know what to make of the confession –could it even be called a confession? Because all her life she’s kept track of the people who have crossed paths with her: those she’s killed, those who have threatened her, those who have helped her and that she will forever owe. And then there is Jason Grace. A different kind of encounter that she doesn’t quite know where to put in her list of categories.

_(Maybe it’s the new one of ‘friend.’)_ __

There’s silence between them again, a third companion that settles leisurely between the two teens. And then a strong electric shock somewhere by her hand, almost causing her to jerk it back, eyes snapping almost accusingly to the boy as an all-too-familiar ‘sorry’ comes as a mumble. At that, Reyna can’t help but shake her head in amusement as her attention returns to the party meant for her. But another distraction comes, fingers winding around her wrist much like years ago when she thought herself drowning, only now the touch is softer —-almost hesitant.

A pause. A heartbeat. An inhaled breath.

Reyna’s fingers respond, curling around warm skin as her lips tug in a smile, albeit shy. And she’s drowning again, only this time in the pleasant feeling of electricity buzzing through her arteries and veins and lungs —drowning in a feeling of being alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**_The palm trees swaying in the wind --------images._ **

The world is so quiet here with a soft soundtrack of rushing cars and chatting people that it almost screams volumes inside her head. It’s too silent, too devoid of sounds and distractions that keep thoughts at bay. In an absence of sound memories too far easily rise and bounce around the confines of her skull.  _Soldiers…teenagers screaming high above the sounds of metal and snakes and death, and her own voice high above it all, tones rich and demanding Latin. Jason yells too, and even though he isn’t praetor the Legion follows him, trusts him and even in the middle of it all, she wonders why she’s the one wearing the purple cloak. But they’re side by side and her tattoo burns in a constant pain that anchors her as she gives her own courage and strength to those who need it most. And pain, **pain.** She can feel all of the fear and doubt and  **pain**  wash over her----_

“Oh c’mon, Rey, don’t act like you haven’t seen a palm tree before.” A broad shoulder jostles her, shaking off the last dregs of the memory as she realizes she’s been staring at the same place for a while now. Eyes blink harshly to bring the quiet world back into focus, all palm trees, blue sky, and laughing people sunbathing in the sand. It’s surprisingly clear, flawless skies with fluffy white clouds skating high above them while the sun burns hot on her skin ---hot like wax or a burning tattoo. She doesn’t respond, merely knocks her heels against the bricks of the low wall they’re sitting on and bites off a piece of her popsicle.

He doesn’t force a response. Not with all they’ve been through. Maybe it’s because he understands, understands better than anyone who clashed  _gladius’_ in the Battle for Mount Othrys. Maybe it’s because he’s somehow shouldering the same burden with her in his silence. And maybe that’s what she likes about the blond: the quiet companionable silence that can stretch for hours that offsets obnoxious jokes and taunts as they circle each other in sparring practice. There doesn’t seem to be people like that anymore, chef salads of spontaneity and concern. And to be completely honest, she had her doubts about Jason. Who wouldn’t doubt Camp Jupiter’s golden boy? Too many times expectation shapes monsters from the innocent. But it’s times like these that make her thankful for giving him a chance, for looking past what everyone else saw and to shape her own image from trust and secrets and  _friendship_. He’s a surprisingly good compromise for her, this moment only one of many. Lips turn up slightly at the memory ----a  _different_  memory of wheedling and bright blue eyes that fixed on her with  _‘Just an hour, Rey.’ ‘No, Jason.’ ‘Plewssseee?’ ‘Fine.’_

It does feel good to have the sun on her back once more, even if her head is a bit too hot for her liking and she can practically feel the rays baking her skin and turning her epidermis three shades darker. She frowns and bites off another piece of her popsicle.

“How do you do that?”

His voice at her ear would have made another jump, but they’re demigods, always on edge and even more so is true for the children of war. (Or maybe she had just been expecting him to say something else to break this quiet, dangerous world). She swallows her surprise and with a lazy sideways glance she reacts, dark brow arching as white teeth gnaw off another fragment of the frozen treat, tongue flicking out to catch the melting droplets. “Do what?” She asks innocently.

And she thinks now it may be his turn to lapse into silence when a response is prompted, but a moment later indignant blues fix on her, accompanied by a sharp dig of an elbow. “Bite a _popsicle_ with your _teeth._ Legend says people who can are spawn of the devil.”

And just because he says it, she bites off a large chunk of rec cherry ice and grins at him as she chews it. “I think _you’re_ making that up, but _maybe_ I am the spawn of _el Diablo._ Who _knows_ what blood I’m inheriting from my mother’s side.” She retorts, thoughtfully catching the last bit of popsicle before it slides off the wooden stick, courtesy of the hot sun glaring down on them. “ _Besides_ , it’s much more efficient than just _licking_ it.” Onyx eyes pointedly look at his hand, covered in sticky blue residue.

“Don’t you know.”

His response is so quiet that Reyna thinks that perhaps she imagined it ---just a mere exhalation of breath into hot muggy air tinged with the smell of salt and sea. And it just _seems_ odd, out of place in this small banter of theirs concerning popsicles and palm trees. “What was that?” She asks, curiously, though her own voice has dropped to a quieter more subdued tone; _gentle,_ almost.

She thinks she startles him despite the soft nature of her own inquiry, a jerk of his hand sending half of his popsicle to melt into a puddle on the hot asphalt. In another place and another time, if the past weeks, month, _months_ hadn’t happened in a whirl of combat and stress and death and death and _death,_ she may have let a soft chortle escape. But their time now is a precarious one, the thin line between being okay and slipping back into a torrent of memories too easily traipsed across. She can’t _bring_ herself to laugh now.

“See, look at this.” Jason says finally, as if he never said the previous three words or didn’t lose half of his food to hot sunshine. She remains silent, fiddling with her now clean popsicle stick, and watches as he takes a bite of his blue treat, or rather, he _tries_ to. White teeth barely graze the surface of the ice before his head jerks back with the oddest expression crossing his face, and funny enough, the second half of his popsicle in the blue puddle with its other half. “Ack.” Accusing blue eyes slide to fix on her face, piercing cerulean meeting the darkest night, as if he blames _her_ for this turn of unfortunate events.

And just like that the curtains of their conversation have shifted once again, the quiet tension only moment before swept aside like a scene change for this lighter atmosphere. Reyna doesn’t mind. She has to bite her lip to keep a straight face, but stern lips and steel eyes break all too soon under his gaze. He seems to do that a lot, she’s noticed; seems to get her to laugh where others can’t, _when_ others can’t. With a quip and a laugh it’s like the past is only a wisp of fog on the far horizon where it can’t hurt her. Lips slip up into a smile and voice holds the edges of laughter though she tries her very best to sound indignant. “That was _your_ fault.”

“Devil spawn.” Is his only retort, though she can hear the amusement there as surely as it’s threaded in her own words.

It’s far too good of an opening for her to resist, all elusive smiles and glinting eyes as she fixes him with a different sort of stare. “But does the Devil bring good news?”

The snort and _are-you-stupid_ look along with “Only bad news, Rey. I know we’re a bit biased to Roman mythology, but _honestly,_ don’t you know your everyday myths?” is so achingly familiar and _expected_ that she almost drops the act. _Almost._

An elbow to his ribs accompanied by a frown. “But I’m serious. I have _good_ news.”

“Are you ever _not_ serious?” She pretends not to notice the hard edge to his tone, nor the wistful undertones beneath it all. It’s true, she won’t deny it. Sometimes it seems like she’s always busy, always working, always ignoring Jason pounding on her door in Via Praetoria because she’s doing _paperwork_ or planning something or another. But being praetor isn’t all about wearing a purple cape and supervising War Games. It’s a tough job –a job she takes seriously, too seriously some may argue, but what else would everyone expect from the daughter of a war goddess? She can’t _afford_ to disappoint those who have tasked her with such high prestige and responsibility ----can’t _afford_ to let another home fade to ghosts and horrors she can’t bring herself to face.

She’s so lost in her thoughts that she doesn’t even notice the shift in blue gaze that’s directed at her ---azure orbs morphing from mirth to concern, all gentle around the edges. “Reyna?” A gentle shoulder nudges hers, lips pinched in concern. Maybe she _was_ working too hard. She could take more than most would think, but everyone breaks eventually and he couldn’t bear to think… That was only one of many reasons he had wanted to get her outside of Camp Jupiter, with its barracks and wounded and scars constantly reminding them of the duties they had to preform without fail. Maybe he thought taking them from that environment would make them more _normal_ for a little while, but honestly, he should have known better than to think that duty wouldn’t be far from Reyna’s mind. “You okay?”

And _now_ she does jump slightly, pulled back from the labyrinth of her thoughts with a jolt. Realizing too late that she had strode across that line between thoughts and memories. “I –yes. I’m fine, Jason.” Best to not think of those times now, best to step away from the line altogether. She has good news. _Good news._ The thought brings another smile to her face, even if it’s a bit faint and worn around the edges.

Yes, the event isn’t supposed to be revealed until tonight –by her, nonetheless—with great fanfare and a feast that had accompanied her own induction to praetorship. One that had been put aside for a certain blonde because of _things_ that had just happened and lives lost and memories needed to be safety stowed away under lays of exhaustion. But for once, she takes pity and _doesn’t_ put her duty as a praetor before everything else, and chooses to be just a friend instead. Just this once. She reaches over to pat his hand, smile growing a tad larger –a tad more genuine. “Tonight, Grace, someone else is going to be wearing a purple cape beside me at a certain _party.”_

He looks more like a gaping fish than a praetor. The expression alone is something she wants to brand forever in her mind –and makes the early reveal of a not-so-surprise party worth it. Reyna laughs and shoves him hard in a muscled shoulder before dancing lightly away, sneakers making nary a sound as she jumps down to the sidewalk, a laugh finally escaping between her lips.

“Wait, Rey. Reyna! _Reyna!”_ She ignores his calls, tossing another laugh over her shoulder. (Someday when the days are dark and dreary and he and Reyna no longer are what they thought they would be forever, he’ll wonder if she ever laughed so much as she did now ----the answer is no). “Rey! Are you _serious?!”_

Another laugh echoes down the street, weaving between palm trees and salty air. “Makes me question if you really _were_ there after the battle.” Her braid dancing briefly through the air as she pauses, turning to look back at her best friend again.

“Of _course,_ I remember. _But d_ o we have to have a _party_ for it?”

A smirk greets his words, mirth dancing in her eyes where ghosts had only minutes before. “I didn’t have any say in mine, so you get none in yours. You _know_ how Romans love to party.” And with that, she’s off back down the sidewalk again.

“Makes me wonder what kind of power I have if I can’t even control my own party.” Jason gives a frustrated growl before taking after her, sneakers pounding against hot pavement. And the two of them race along the sidewalk under the hot watchful eye of the sun; quick steps taking them through dappled shadows cast by the swaying palm trees overhead, their laughter ringing clear and true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally found inspiration to write the next part! Sorry if it's a bit dull for you. Promises that the next one will be quite fluffy C: A hint? Paperwork + "you sang me Spanish lullabies" -Zia

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment with any opinions or criticism! I haven't written a fic in quite a while and struggle to find Jason's voice tbh. Also, stayed tuned for much, much more. Jason and Reyna's friendship and what it becomes and what it SHOULD have meant, means so much to me. So I have so much planned (like....20 chapters worth more). Thanks! -Zia


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